


Each Day’s Life

by Shachaai



Series: Vampire AU [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis Bonnefoy technically died, disappeared and was Turned into something from his nightmares, all in one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Each Day’s Life

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly taken from Shakespeare’s Macbeth (the innocent sleep,/ Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,/ The death of each day’s life).
> 
> Mild France -> Belarus and France/Russia. ~~I am never writing Ivan with a crush on French boys again. It’s impossible and I think I butchered him.~~

She has very intent eyes. There’s nothing particularly _particular_ about those eyes except their intensity, but they naturally draw the gaze to the rest of her face, to pale aquiline grace. She’s _striking_ , assuredly so, and beautiful – if a little behind in fashion – in her dark blue dress with pearls beading the hood set far back from her face. (She’d surely, Francis thinks, lays his hand on the smooth curve of her waist as he steps out with her to dance, be just as stunning in the dark.)

Francis chooses her because he’s vain and bored and so used to fawning her silent stare catches him by surprise, an unmoving figure in the bright millpond that is his sister’s friend’s feast. At twenty-six Francis knows all the ins and outs of social etiquette, knows how to dress and dance and dine and dangle at the ends of society’s whims, his father’s heir and his family’s pride. He chooses her to dance with, to escort onto the floor and swing up into the air, and forgets so easily in the breathless dance that he chose her because she chose him first.

She does not suffer his delusions. 

“My brother wishes to speak with you,” she says (it is the _only_ thing she says), and firmly takes his arm when their sole dance is done, leads him to the side of the main hall where the shadows are longer and people stand in odd clusters or alone.

Nearly everyone is talking or dancing, far too busy to notice Francis wandering away – and yet, even those few who aren’t otherwise engaged don’t glance over at the corner Francis’ mysterious partner leads him to, instinctively averting their eyes from the tall man standing there, pale as a wraith.

And Ivan – Ivan Braginski is the name he gives, foreign words and foreign accent fumbling into French – is _tall,_ tall and broad and…and it’s not entirely the style of clothes he wears either that give him that look. No, Ivan's clothes are somewhat outdated – expensive, but not entirely with current fashions, fitted for broad, bold lines rather than the leaner, sloping look taken up due to the Spanish influence – but there’s breadth in Ivan’s shoulders beneath the heavy cloth anyway, his grip firm and his frame solid. His hair is ash blond; his eyes are violet-light where the iris’ black hasn’t swallowed the colour and – and his blush is _charming_ when Francis smiles at him from under lowered lashes, fingertips brushing over a pale wrist’s pulse when he takes Ivan’s hand in greeting.

They retire from the hall together.

Francis suggests they retire further to one of their antechambers to talk. Ivan suggests they go look at the paintings along the corridors so they have something to talk about. Francis agrees, but then Ivan steers him down the most well-lit and populated hallway in the home, stepping around both people and the evening’s sunbeams coming in through the windows with a grace that belies his size.

Francis thinks, perhaps, even with all his blushing, Ivan does not quite understand what retiring from the hall together _means._ The thought is…somewhat troublesome, but eagerness can, in many ways, always make up for a lack of skill, and Ivan is – well, ‘eager’ is not perhaps the most _correct_ word Francis can think of to describe his newest acquaintance, but it’s something along those lines. Something _strongly_ along those lines, as Ivan has yet to relinquish his grip – hard to the point where it’s almost painful – on Francis’ arm, resisting all attempts on Francis’ behalf to pull away even an inch. And Francis doesn’t pull anymore after a while, because –

Ivan smiles, the hallway seems to vacate of people, and Francis doesn’t want to pull away.

Ivan has very intent eyes. Much like his sister, really. So shadowed and strange, and yet he stands close enough to a window for the sunset to pick out the strands of his pale hair in fine detail, reflected gold. Red. Red sky –

“…I am fond of you, I think,” Ivan tells Francis, serious and smiling and accented French. Where _is_ he from? It is nice to be thought fondly of. It is – Ivan lays a heavy hand on Francis’ shoulder and Francis feels stupid all of sudden, dislikes the feeling distantly and wonders at why the thought is so abstract, why he isn’t as concerned as he’d usually be. Ivan is…suitably distracting company, with his endless gaze and endless smile, brushing the loose ends of Francis’ curling hair back off his shoulder.

Ivan has a charming smile, and very white, very sharp-looking teeth. That is – that ought to be a cause for concern – Francis knows the old tales, knows the warnings the Church gives, that even the heretics give and –

And he should care, but he doesn’t in that moment, and some tiny dying part of him panics and _flees_ inside of him whilst the rest of him stands frozen, still before Ivan’s smile, and Ivan’s gentle hands pulling his collar down. “I shall keep you, yes?” 

Francis cannot open his mouth to say no.

Ivan’s bite _hurts._

It is not like the stories go, like the gossips in the markets whisper or giggle when the priest’s disapproving eyes are elsewhere. There is little pleasure in the bite – it is sharp and heavy and Ivan bears his not inconsiderate weight down against Francis, grinds him close with his palms spread flat against Francis’ spine. Francis’ ribs _scream_ at the abuse even as all the air is crushed out of his lungs, his slim hands useless against Ivan’s immovable bulk and going numb – number. His neck – Ivan has latched on below his throat, nearer his shoulder and aching _pain_ spreads out like a red web from the spot, needles pushed through the skin seeping hurt down into Francis’ chest and arm. It hurts, hurts more than anything Francis has ever known, scrunching his eyes shut instinctively against the endless _hurt_ of the world. There are hot sunbursts behind his eyes.

His throat hurts and his mouth’s dry and Ivan –

Francis _hurts,_ but there’s something wet and warm pressed against his half-open mouth – breathe, _breathe –_ that tastes of iron. He latches onto it, this…this little thing and Ivan still presses down and – and –

It _burns_ behind his eyes, in his head, down his throat, fire in his stomach that sears everything, anything that makes Francis Bonnefoy who he is. It burns and burns and burns and _burns –_

Blackness is a blessing.

Waking up again (much, much) later, cradled across Ivan Braginski’s lap in a room Francis doesn’t know, with a window open to a cold night landscape Francis has never seen before in his pitifully short life, is not.

(He’s still thirsty.)


End file.
